


This Love of Mine

by Ms_Tinker



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romance, Steggy Secret Santa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:15:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ms_Tinker/pseuds/Ms_Tinker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peggy and Steve have some things that need to be worked out...</p><p>For @americasnewhope on Tumblr, for the Steggy Secret Santa. Happy Holidays :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love of Mine

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song, "This Love of Mine" by Ella Fitzgerald. I recommend a listen while reading--especially towards the end.

"I don't know if I can do this," she looks down at her hands, clenched tightly in her lap. Saying it out loud is harder than she thought it would be, her nerves forcing every cell in her body to vibrate with unease; this she refuses to allow. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, forcing a momentary stillness through her body that she knows will not last.

 

"I don't know what you're saying," and she flinches slightly at the sound of his voice. She cannot look at him. Not now. She knows that it will be her undoing if she meets his clear blue gaze, even for a moment. So she keeps her eyes on her fists, kneading the back of one hand into the palm of the other in an attempt to force the tension from her muscles.

 

"I don't think I can do _this_ ," she repeats, hating how close she is to losing control. Every fiber in her body feels as though it's screaming to rush to him, blood pounding through her ears. But she must hold steady, stand her ground. Stiff upper lip. What is the point if she does not?

 

"What is _this_?" She doesn't raise her eyes, but she hears the frustration in his voice from across the room. He is irate with her. He is annoyed with her. And she's annoyed with herself too, truth be told. When in hell did she become this woman teetering so close to the edge? When in hell did just existing become such a struggle?

 

And suddenly she is angry—at him, at the situation, at the fact that she is even being forced to have this conversation. But mostly she is angry at herself for assuming that he would be the same as he was before he went into the ice. She is angry that she allowed Howard to dump her here in the 21st Century, using what was left of the Tesseract, because she was being what amounted to a foolish, love-struck schoolgirl; one half of a pair of star-crossed lovers who she thought might have been given a second chance. She is disgusted with herself and her blind naiveté.

 

With his eyes on her, she can feel his pity—and she loathes it.

 

" _This,_ " she spits, waving her hand in the air between them and lifting her head but avoiding his gaze. "I can't do _this_. Whatever this _thing_ is between us. It's not working."

 

"You don't mean that."

 

"I do."

 

"No."

 

"I do."

 

"No, you don't." His tone is iron clad and unyielding. He is every bit as stubborn as she remembers.

 

"Do not presume to tell me what I do or do not mean, Steven." She snaps. Her eyes finally land on his, sharp, alert, and raging, while her voice cuts at his hardened resolve.

 

And they remain like that. Perhaps they have lost another century by simply staring the other down. She has lost all track of linear time. The universe could have imploded and her eyes would never have left his. His jaw is rigid, his teeth set squarely against one another and, even against her better judgement (seemingly against her will) she cannot help but admire how strong and masculine he looks. He looks every bit of his Captain America, even without the suit, and that is when the realization strikes her so hard, the air rushes from her lungs in a single, heaving breath.

 

She does not know this man standing before her. She knows his name, she knows his face, she knows his favorite song and color, she knows his mother’s maiden name, and she knows the date of his best friend’s death; but she does not _know_ him. Not really. Not anymore. The way he looks now—his jaw set, eyes piercing yet distant—is the way he looked after Bucky died. Empty. The man she knew from Camp Leigh is gone, replaced by the man she found in a bombed-out shell of a pub, trying so desperately to make sense of the world around him. She had been able to get through to him then, soothed him, but she has the distinct feeling in the pit of her stomach that the man she fell in love with is too far gone for her to reach now. There is nothing left for her to soothe. She has lost him again.

 

The realization terrifies her.

 

All at once she gives in, her shoulders dropping, her back rolling to lean against the back of the chair. Her gaze moves to the window, trying to distract her mind with the dusky sky and shiny chrome buildings of 21st Century New York City. He doesn't press her though, the deafening silence doing more than enough to force the inevitable to the surface.  

 

"When did we start fighting?" Her voice is low and broken, as she struggles to keep the lump from moving further up her throat. It burns with the effort.

 

She continues to stare out the window, but senses him uncoil himself, hears him sigh in some form of defeat. "I don't know."

 

When she returns her full attention to him, her eyes are stinging from the threat of tears. "I don't know who you are. I said my goodbyes to Steven Rogers so long ago and I buried Captain America beside him. So I don't know who you're supposed to be. I can only blame myself for this situation.”

 

The words sting as she says them, like poison dripping off her lips. It is made worse by the look on his face, his jaw going slack, his brows knitting together, his eyes brightening, but doing nothing to hide the turbulence raging within him. For the first time, she can feel his longing to reach out for her, the look on his face pleading. It locks a vice around her heart, tightening her chest and squeezing the life out of her.

 

"It was mad of me to think that you would be the same. It was foolish and naive of me to think that we could have our happily ever after.  I'm sorry. I should never have come here."

 

She is broken; even more so now than when he missed their date at the Stork Club. The entire fabric of who she was during and after the war was based entirely upon her love for this man. And she had been so sure of that love; so sure of her adoration for that skinny boy from Brooklyn who got into too many fights and was too sickly by half. She had loved his strength of character and spirit, even then. She had loved the loyalty he felt for his friends, for his fellow soldiers, for his country—for her. She still loved it, even now; years after having last heard his voice disappear into crackling static.

 

But now, she suspects that she had fallen in love with a myth; a man constructed of her own imagination; a man who never truly existed. And this man standing in front of her is the proof that that the skinny fighter from Brooklyn is gone, replaced by his own legend.

 

The tears unwillingly roll down her cheeks then, having lost the strength to hold them back any longer. Her stare is hard against the grain of the hardwood floor at his feet. She simply cannot bear to look at him anymore. But she sees his shoes move towards her, slowly shuffling across the room to where she sits completely defeated in the chair. He stops just above her. She can feel his eyes boring holes into her, willing her to look at him, to which she stubbornly refuses. Finally, he lowers himself onto his knees, brining himself almost eye level with her. He is forcing his way in.

 

"Look at me, Peg," he commands softly. She is obstinate, looking completely through him. "Please, Peg."

 

He whispers the last bit, his voice cracking and she knows that he is crying.

 

She breaks, looking him squarely in the eye. She sees directly the turmoil and pain within her reflected within him. He does not want this to be over any more than she does. And for the first time since she arrived, she feels an odd sense of familiarity.

 

"Will you let me show you something?" his voice low and imploring. "Please?"

 

She should just break it off, nice and cleanly. It was a mistake for her to come here, but that does not mean that she cannot make it work. She could join Fury, rebuild S.H.I.E.L.D., and return it to its former glory. She could move on. Allow him to move on. They would both have closure and neither one has to be hurting beyond this point.

 

He notices her hesitation. "Do you trust me?"

 

"Yes." It is out of her mouth before she even realizes it.

 

"Ok," he stands, running he back of one hand across his cheeks, attempting to eradicate the evidence of his tears; the other hand he offers to her, reaching out for her to take. She stares at it for a moment, before wrapping her fingers around his. And the moment her skin makes contact, she breaks a little more, the warmth of his skin flushing across her entire body while her stomach twists with restlessness.

 

 

*****************

 

She notices how firmly he grasps her hand, as though it is his anchor to her. And perhaps it is. His hand in hers is the only reason she is even following him into his office.

 

He stops at the door to the closet, pulling a key out of his pocket and quickly unlocking it. He pulls them into the room before flicking a switch near the door as he closes it behind her. A small floor lamp strikes in the corner, illuminating the walls in a low, warm glow.

 

The room is small, though large for a closet, with a window toward the back with a view down onto the city. The walls are covered in bits of paper and she finds herself compelled to see what is on them.

 

“Go on, have a look,” he urges, moving around her to a table near the window.

 

The lump in her throat returns as she takes a step toward one of the walls. It is covered in sketches. The light is poor, but she can easily make out Dugan’s mustache and bowler hat. He appears to be smiling up at her, a glint in his eye. And next to him is Morita, his cap pushed high on his head, looking serious as always. And next to that is a portrait of Falsworth, his brow furrowed and his maroon beret splashed with watercolor. As she continues to look, she finds the entire wall to be covered in portraits of her Howling Commandos, dotted here and there with landscapes and cityscapes of their stations during the war.

 

In fact, everywhere she looks, she finds sketches of the war and as she continues across the wall, the drawings become scattered with his current friends—Fury frowning along the page with his one good eye, watercolors of Iron Man and Hulk, detailed renderings of Mjölnir (she becomes surprisingly amused by a caricature of Thor posing with his hammer), and sketches of what she can only assume is 21st Century Brooklyn.

 

Everything feels like it is firing off at once, the tips of her fingers tingling with the urge to touch the drawings while her mind reels from the knowledge that he still sketches—everything. She inhales a small, shaky breath as she lands on the portraits of Bucky, his cocky grin both irritating and heart-wrenching at once. He’s irritatingly charming, even in drawn form.

 

“Steve,” is all she can manage, her lips barely moving as she stares into Bucky’s charcoal eyes and she is surprised by the sound for a moment. She wasn’t even aware that she had even said anything.

 

She hears the click of another switch behind her, another warm glow illuminating the pages before her.

 

“Peg,” his voice is soft, hesitant, behind her. She turns, her attention landing on a small drafting table near the window. It is covered in charcoal, pencils, and scraps of paper. But as her gaze moves to the wall above the table, she finds her nose and eyes beginning sting involuntarily.

 

The wall is covered with sketches of her. Some are simple portraits, her brow cocked in silent challenge; some are her with the Commandos, some laughing, some looking on with disapproval; some are character sketches, the depth of her eyes, the curve of her lips, the curl of her hair. But most are of her with him—him holding her, her holding him, the pair of them simply walking or smiling, curled in bed together, holding hands.

 

“This is where I come when everything out there becomes too much,” he is looking at the floor but she notes the careful furrow in his brow as he thinks carefully about what exactly it is he wants to say. She stays silent, allowing him to find his words.

 

“When they first brought me out of the ice, I had trouble sleeping. I’d wake up with night sweats, but feel like I was freezing again, drowning inside the tin can of Schmidt’s ship. So rather than risk falling back asleep, I’d sketch. It was soothing, and sort of comforting, being able to still see my friends’ faces in my mind’s eye and still be able to draw them by hand. It reassured me that all of them had actually existed, that it had all happened.

 

“I did the same after the attack on New York last year, but slowly, the sketches began to turn into the faces of my new friends. But there was still one thing I could never stop drawing,” he looks up, and for the first time since she appeared out of the Tesseract, she is able to see shadows of the boy from Brooklyn she had fallen in love with. “You.”

 

“It never seemed to matter what else happened outside this room, because being able to hide away in here for a bit and sketch you back into my life—well, it helped me cope with everything else,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his compass, now significantly less shiny and more dented than it was when she had seen it in that news reel during the war. He studies it carefully, holding it delicately, as if it is the most precious thing in the world.

 

Her chest tightens as her eyes sting; she knows exactly what is inside that little brass compass and watching him hold it so carefully is breaking her apart.

 

“They found this clenched in my fist when they dug me out of the metal and ice. The last thing I remember is staring at the photo of you as I hit the water, but I suppose I probably grabbed it so I wouldn’t lose it in the crash,” his thumb dances lightly across the brass. He seems so far away.

 

“I couldn’t lose you,” his voice is strained, barely more than a whisper. “I can’t lose you again.” And given all his size and power, she is struck by how small and broken he looks, his hair falling across his forehead just as it had during his basic training.

 

When he looks up at her, it is her undoing. She sees Steven Grant Rogers, his blond hair brushing against his forehead, his lips parted just so, and his gaze is so intense that she finds that she can do nothing else but focus entirely on his crystal blue eyes. No longer distant or guarded, she is taken aback by how vulnerable he looks. It freezes her in place, unsure of what will happen if she moves. He moves for them, taking a hesitant step towards her.

 

“Please don’t go,” he whispers, fresh tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. He is close enough now that she can see his nose turning red from the effort of holding back. She imagines she looks about the same.

 

And suddenly he is close, too close. She can smell his soap, clean and fresh, and strikingly similar to the smell of the soap he used all those years ago. And she can feel his breath gliding gently over her temple, warm and inviting. She focuses on a thread on his shirt, unwilling to acquiesce.

 

“You know I can’t,” she urges, fighting to keep her voice even.

 

“You can’t stay, or you can’t go?” she feels his voice reverberating through her more than she hears it, his breath easing its way down her neck.

 

“Both.”

 

“Would it help if I reminded you that you still owe me a dance?”

 

Her body seems to make the decision for her, grasping his face between her palms and yanking him down to her level. From the instant their lips meet, fire ignites. They are all lips and tongue and teeth. It is not at all with the usual skill she has grown accustomed to using when kissing a man, but she does not care in the slightest. Whatever will get him closer to her, bring him into her, allow her to devour him completely so that she never has to feel the fear and heartbreak of losing him again.

 

“Peggy,” he groans deep in his chest as she tastes his skin, reveling in the feel of her tongue against his neck. It is the most glorious way any person has ever said her name and she wants to hear him say it again.

 

But before she has time to do anything else, he scoops her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he turns to set her against the drafting table. She releases a low growl when he presses himself into her, his head falling against her shoulder. One hand sneaks down the back of his shirt, while the other threads through his hair.

 

“Why didn’t you show me this in the first place?” she asks softly, lightly running her glossy red nails across his skin. He rests his head against the crook of her neck, allowing her to continue with her ministrations.

 

“Everyone’s always been so focused on bringing Captain America into this century. Telling people about this room and what’s in it’s kinda like having them see me naked. It’s my vulnerable underbelly.” He nuzzles her neck for a moment before continuing, “I was scared. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you thought I had changed so completely.”

 

He pulls away from her slightly, just enough so that he can gage her reaction. She slides her hands out and down, resting them on his chest, but she continues to keep her legs firmly in place around his hips.

 

“You have changed, Steve. Don’t ever think that you haven’t. We both have. You woke up in a completely different century, with no friends, no family, no life. And while I can’t imagine what that must have been like, completely starting from scratch, I can only assume that you mourned what you lost, just as I mourned you when you disappeared. We’ve both journeyed beyond who we were during the war, but you must know that I still love you, with all my heart. I love you, Steven Grant Rogers. Don’t ever assume that you have to continue to be Captain America because that’s what you think I, or your new friends expect you to be. I’m certain that if you give them a chance to get to know Steve Rogers, they’ll love you just as much as I do.”

 

She reaches up and pushes his fine hair out of his face, grazing her thumb across his smooth forehead, examining how her boy from Brooklyn has managed to grow so weary and worn. He softly takes her wrist in his hand, pulling it down to his lips, pressing a wet kiss to her velvety skin.

 

“I love you more than anything, Peg,” his lips move against the warm skin of her palm, “I’ll do better to be the man you want me to be.”

 

Instantly, she takes his face in both palms, forcing him to look at her.

 

“Be the man _you_ want to be, Steve, not the man anyone expects you to be; not me, not Nick Fury, not Stark, not anyone else.” His face is warm and rough from the stubble beneath her finger tips. No, he is no longer her boy from Brooklyn. Beneath her finger tips and between her legs is a man, a man who has struggled to find himself his entire life.

 

“Ok,” his voice is steady, gaze resolute, though she can feel his blood hammering through his veins. But she finds that his eyes are no longer distant, focused entirely on her. They will do this together. It’s the same look he gave her the day she had convinced him that he was more than just a dancing monkey.

 

“Ok,” she echoes, pulling him closer, capturing his earlobe lightly between her teeth.

 

“Do you have any music?” she breathes, her lips sucking lightly at the skin around his ear. “I hear I owe a soldier a dance lesson? And maybe even a bit of fondue…” And she grins as she feels a hot blush creep up his neck and onto his cheeks.


End file.
